


Last Call

by antithestral



Category: Marvel, The Avengers - Ambiguous Fandom
Genre: Fluff and Humor, M/M, Prompt Fill, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, Tumblr Ask Box Fic, alcohol mention, previously posted on antithestral, really about to lose all my angst credentials with this one cotton candy ass fic, worth it lmao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-15
Updated: 2020-08-15
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:54:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/antithestral/pseuds/antithestral
Summary: For the prompt:Steve/Tony, sharing a drink.“Still,” Steve said softly. “You should let me buy you a drink, one of these days.”Tony glanced up at him, puzzled, tense, trying to figure out what that meant, what Steve meant, trying to look past the thing he…wantedit, so desperately, to mean. “Yeah?”Steve slanted a glance at him, from underneath his lashes. His mouth gleamed from the cognac, shiny and wet, and his eyes were dark, fathomless, stunning. “Yeah.”
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Tony Stark
Comments: 14
Kudos: 143





	Last Call

**Author's Note:**

> this was supposed to be a minific. ANYWAY.

Steve found Tony out on the deck, cellphone in one hand, a glass of scotch in the other, staring out at the sea of lights that was New York City by night, gorgeous and glittering and seemingly endless.

“Hey,” Steve called out. “What are you doing out here?”

“Waiting for a call from the Italian premier.”

“Huh. Why?”

“Do you care?” Tony asked wryly, and Steve grinned sheepishly, coming up against the edge and turning around, both elbows hanging over the lip of the railing, so he was facing Tony.

“Nah, not really.” 

“Figures,” Tony murmured, going back to his phone. Steve meanwhile was leaning farther and farther backward, to take in the last thirty or so floors above them, and the forty foot antenna above that, bending like a goddamn limbo player over the edge of the balcony, and then his foot skidded forward, and—

“Whoa!” Tony exclaimed, catching him around the waist. “Easy there, soldier.”

And instead of straightening up, Steve sort of half-melted into him. “Whoops,” he mumbled into Tony’s shoulder.

“Yeah,” Tony repeated, baffled. “Whoops. Are you… drunk or something?”

And instead of pulling his face away from Tony’s neck, Steve held up a thumb and a forefinger that were, conservatively, a millimetre apart. 

“How… the hell did you..”

“Thor brought a thing.”

“Unbelievable. You let a Norse god _roofie_ you?”

WHich was the point Steve pulled away to frown at Tony. “He didn’t _roofie_ me.” Steve’s arm was still comfortably looped around Tony’s waist. It was… very solid. “He just got me pleasantly… pleasantly…”

“Pleasantly wasted, yeah, I can see that. You need to be sitting down somewhere, come on.”

There were couches out on the deck, near the fire pit, and Tony nudged Steve down next to him, which the good Captain took as invitation to, once more, shove his face into Tony’s neck. Not that Tony minded. The problem was how much Tony _really_ did not mind.

And then TOny felt Steve’s mouth rub against his skin. “Steve?” he asked quietly, trying not to tense up.

“Mm?” Steve said. Tony could feel that little hint of wetness, the soft whoosh of warm breath against his skin. Steve was sort of draped over his side, a warm, solid, linebacker-sized radiator of a human being, and Steve’s hand was splayed over his middle, stroking slow and unconscious.

“Maybe we should be putting you in bed, huh?” Tony tried carefully. His heart was starting to pound a little. 

Steve’s hand slowed down. His breath exhaled softly, whistling in Tony’s ear.

“Steve? Hey, Cap?”

Steve snored into his ear.

“Oh, great.”

* * *

“Hey, you.” 

Tony looked up from his StarkPad, and found Steve looking down at him, smiling and golden, and a little bit mussed, a square-cut crystal tumbler of what looked like whiskey in his hand. 

“Hey, yourself,” he said carefully. It wasn’t like Steve to come looking for him. He wondered what this was about.

“You’re missing a pretty great party down there.” 

Tony had secreted himself away on the upper walkway that wrapped around the split-level living room slash common area where somebody had had the godforsaken bright idea to blast Party Rock on full — which, considering the quality of Tony’s sound system, was… a lot. He was pretty sure Clint and Darcy were teaching Thor how to grind, like the resident Bad Influences they were.

“I need to get through this,” he replied, gesturing at his tablet screen. Steve took this an invitation, sliding into the empty space by his side on the incredibly small loveseat.

“What’s this?”

“Cramming for a meeting with the UN Secretary General tomorrow.”

Steve looked at him for a full beat. “ _Wow_. When did you get all—”

“Boring?” Tony suggested lightly.

Steve elbowed him, rolling his eyes and taking a long sip of his maybe-scotch. “‘ _Responsible_ ,’ I was gonna say. You can _fly,_ and shoot _laser beams_ out of your hands Tony, I don’t think anyone thinks you’re boring.”

Tony huffed a quiet laugh. “Repulsor blasts,” he complained lightly, “not _laser beams,_ what am I, a low-rent Superman?” and Steve waved his hand through the air, like _yeah, yeah._

“You should come on down,” Steve said. “Relax a little. Lemme buy you a drink.”

“It’s an open bar, Steve.” He went back to the refugee crisis in Central Asia. “An open bar, incidentally, that I’m paying for, so if anyone’s buyin’ anyone a drink…”

Steve sprawled back a little, arm coming over the top of the loveseat, and if it had been anyone else, if this was middle school and they were in a darkened movie theatre, Tony would have suspected someone was putting the moves on him. But it was Captain America, all apple pie, heterosexual, wholesome, made-for-TV goodness, and Tony quietly, guiltily pushed the thought away.

“Still,” Steve said softly. “You should let me buy you a drink, one of these days.”

Tony glanced up at him, puzzled, tense, trying to figure out what that meant, what _Steve_ meant, trying to look past the thing he… _wanted_ it to mean. “Yeah?”

Steve slanted a glance at him, from underneath his lashes. His mouth gleamed from the possibly-cognac, shiny and wet, and his eyes were dark, fathomless, stunning. “Yeah.”

* * *

“So they’re deploying from Incirlik?” George asked Tony, who nodded, setting his phone down on the bartop, and pulling up a holodisplay of the globe, zooming in on Kazakhstan, the vast barren stretch north of Lake Balkash where the cold, barren taiga bled into cold, barren desert. 

“A peacekeeping force, or so the ambassador tells me,” Tony managed to reply, and then George was looking up with some alarm, and a hand was slapping Tony in the shoulder, and a too-familiar voice was saying, “Tony! There you are!”

Tony spun his barstool around, and Steve was grinning up at him, radiant and flushed and—

“Oh I am going to _kill_ Thor,” Tony muttered. “He slipped you the good stuff again, didn’t he?”

Steve’s hand had slipped to Tony’s nape, a couple fingers sliding under his collar, stroking the warm, damp skin there. “Be nice to him,” Steve said, stepping in so close he was standing between Tony’s knees now. “Everybody else is having a blast. It’s no fun bein’ the only sober guy at the party, you know?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Tony sighed. “I know.” 

George tapped his shoulder, the one Steve hadn’t already invaded and occupied. “Hey,” he said quietly, “I’m gonna give you guys a little space.”  
  
Tony blinked. Turned. Right, George, _crap_. “Um. Yeah, sorry, thanks. Give Amal my best.”

George twinkled at him, arched an eyebrow at Steve’s back, and then walked away, the bastard. Meanwhile, Steve was coping badly with the momentary loss of Tony’s attention.

“Hey,” he said, poking at Tony’s ribs. “Hey, I should get you that drink.”

“ _This_ is an open bar too, sweetheart,” Tony teased, but Steve flushed a little more, saying, “We’re gonna— we’re gonna ignore that,” signalling the bartender over. “What are you drinking?”

“Club soda.”  
  
Steve frowned. “You mean vodka soda.”

“ _No_ ,” Tony said slowly. “I mean club soda. I got a training session, you know, thing with the kid tomorrow. We’re going upstate and everything. Can’t operate heavy machinery hungover, right?”

“No,” Steve said. The frown had not quite gone away, and his hands were cupping Tony’s jaw, gripping his shoulder, and Tony was only just realizing that at some point he had curled his own hands low around Steve’s waist, probably to steady him, he couldn’t even remember.

Tony watched him, the sloe-eyed gaze, the half-unbuttoned shirt, the faint sheen of sweat and bad decisions. “So,” he said quietly, because this wasn’t the kind of question you yelled at an Oscars’ afterparty, “why did you _really_ ask Thor for the magic booze?”

And Steve seemed to breathe in deeply, and everything about him turned sort of hungry and intentional, and he said, “So I could do this,” and leaned in, holding Tony still, and kissed him.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for reading! if you liked this fic, please remember to hit kudos <3  
> reblogabble on tumblr **[here!](https://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com/post/626434341630820352/last-call/)**  
>  find me on tumblr **@[pasdecoeur](https://pasdecoeur.tumblr.com/)**


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